The Perfect Woman by Robert Sheckley - Somebody once came up with a song title we have never forgotten: "For every man there is a woman, so why did I gel stuck with you?” Not that Mr. Morcheck felt that way about Myra. Fie not only believed she was absolutely perfect; you could get a punch in the nose for doubting it! And he was so right —for a while!
Mr. Morcheck awoke with a sour taste in his mouth and a laugh ringing in his ears. It was George Owen-Clark’s laugh, the last thing he remembered from the Triad-Morgan party. And what a party it had been! All Earth had been celebrating the turn of the century. The year Three Thousand! Peace and prosperity to all, and happy life...
“How happy is your life?” Owen-Clark had asked, grinning slyly, more than a little drunk. “I mean, how is life with your sweet wife?” That had been unpleasant. Everyone knew that Owen-Clark was a Primitivist, but what right had he to rub people’s noses in it? Just because he had married a Primitive Woman. . . .
“I love my wife,” Morcheck had said stoutly. “And she’s a hell of a lot nicer and more responsive than that bundle of neuroses you call your wife.” But of course, you can’t get under the thick hide of a Primitivist. Primitivists love the faults in their women as much as their virtues — more, perhaps.
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